desire the horse, depression the cart

Book of Longing was not the mindquake-causing work of emotive genius I was expecting. It was strangely unmoving, which was disappointing, but from that grew a stillness that was more than the absence of movement. The shapes created by the poetry and music fit in with the shadows One Hundred Years Of Solitude cast, and in that stillness the water was disturbed. Somewhere in depths we rarely venture something passed through. Something vast and so unknown it defies the imagination, and though we strive to give it form, it will forever remain a mystery. We know not what it was, what it is, what it might be. We are left only in the passage of its wake, and the water disturbed.